By Rachelle Zilavec
Autumn-rusted leaves always fall, but they will always grow back.
That concept of autumn doesn’t exist here, but at least the trees are still green.
With all the changes the earth enforces us to see, there is always the constant:
Trees are still green.
But the growing metaphor of autumn-to-spring leaves
Gets lost in the translation because you no longer live in that familiar scene.
Imagine,
Looking in the mirror begins to seem foreign in the same way you are.
You look like you blend in because comfort is an image you have practiced in the mirror.
Your reflection taunts your attempts at becoming like everyone else
and your flesh can’t keep up with the constant threat of standing out.
There can’t be two of you,
so if you broke that silver border between you,
What version do you keep?
Which one do you believe?
In a space of unfamiliarity,
you can only rely on the consistencies,
One of them being,
a reminder,
That at least here,
trees are still green.
Author Bio
Rachelle Zilavec
Rachelle Zilavec is from Toronto, Canada. She is an honors student majoring in literature and writing as well as a track and field athlete at California State San Marcos University. Rachelle enjoys traveling and finding new topics to write about.